


you ever just murder your ex

by beeperinobeep



Category: Original Work
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Murder, idk what else i could even put here, its just bastards !, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 07:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17320343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeperinobeep/pseuds/beeperinobeep
Summary: buttercup gets PISSED





	you ever just murder your ex

Something wasn’t right, he thought.

There shouldn’t be such a heavy weight on his chest- his quilt, though thick, didn’t weigh nearly as much as that, and didn’t concentrate around his ribcage.

There shouldn’t be that raspy, frantic breathing in his room- the only sound he should be hearing is the sleet banging on the windows in tune with his steadily rising heart rate.

And there  _ certainly _ shouldn’t be something very cold and very sharp that had sidled its way next to his neck, having somehow found its way to a vein amidst the plush feathers that coated it, glinting in the pallid moonlight as his groggy eyes fixed themselves first on the blade, and then the handle attached to it, and then the brazen hand holding it that led to a pajama-clad arm and ,finally, a yellow, feathered face of quiet fury.

“...Buh-Buttercup?” he mumbled, making a move to rub one of his eyes before he realized, as he fruitlessly tugged, that one of his wings was being pinned down.  
“ _Fuck you.”_ His assailant pressed the weapon in further, a small spurt of ink shooting out and staining the pastel pillowcase. He let out a quiet squeak of pain, attempting to shy his body away from the knife to no avail.  
“Wha-Wha-What is this- What do you want??” he stammered out, the sharp pain in his neck having woken him up fully.

“Shut the hell up. You… You know what this is about,” Buttercup replied, in the sort of muted, shaky voice that suggested a wave of violence that, at the moment, was hardly being restrained in favor of not being caught.

“Buh-Bu-Buttercup-”  
He grunted in frustration, sinking the knife in deeper and cutting through his skin quite literally like paper. “I said _shut up._ Please.” A sigh escaped between his brass teeth that shimmered in a mixture of moonlight and spit. It was difficult to tell if it was out of vexation or anticipation. Likely both.

“If I can’t have you, then nobody can,” he finally said, a maniacal grin finally cracking its way across his beak. 

“Is thi- Is  _ this _ wha-wha-wh-”

Before he could finish stuttering his way through another sentence, the hand that had been pinning his limb down zipped towards his own beak, clamping it shut with a cold, metallic grip. 

“I love you, Acry~ Never forget that.” The blade only sunk in further, the warm, black ink flowing freely now like a macabre waterfall as a nearly-stifled chortle slipped out of him.

The panicked yell that escaped the victim was muffled by his attacker’s hand, and he squirmed wildly as he tried to wriggle his way out- sure, his wing was free, but there was still a good 100 pounds or so on his chest. His frantic movements only dug the weapon in deeper, more jaggedly, and his skin tore open wider.   
“Oh, stop _moving_!” Buttercup exclaimed, having lost his desire for secrecy in his awakened bloodlust. “You’re just making this harder for yourself, but then again, I guess you’ve _always_ done that, huh?” He moved the knife away from the victim’s neck, licking the ink from the blade with relish as a slight shudder ran down his spine. “Mm~ You taste as good as I remember.” He gave a sigh of satisfaction, plunging the blade back down into Acry’s fragile torso, the glasslike substance emitting a quiet cracking noise as the weapon embedded itself into the inkwell and, by extension, the mattress beneath it. Acry- well, more properly, Acramento- reacted to this with an involuntary buck that did nothing but make Buttercup laugh harder as he held tight to the blankets, almost getting thrown off of his body. “ _God,_ you’re sure bleeding a lot, aren’t you?” he teased. His eyes, despite being blind, seemed to have transfixed on Acramento’s. “Maybe you should tell someone about this~ Too bad you’re nothing but a fucking _pussy_ , huh? You can’t do anything about this. You wouldn’t even if you _could._ ”  
Acramento, in response, weakly squirmed in an attempt to drive out the blade that had pinned him to his bed, but quickly gave up once his attempts had proven futile. His soft, thin body relaxed with defeat, though his eyes were still alight with terror and a glimmer of betrayal. 

“Awwh, you’re giving up already?” Buttercup tutted, delicately placing his hand back onto the slick handle of the knife. “Shame, though I guess in hindsight it’d be typical.” Slowly,  _ painfully _ slowly, he pulled the knife back out, neglecting to wipe off the copious amounts of ink that had squirted onto and stained his face and pajamas. He nestled the knife back into its starting position, the blade fitting into the wound with ease like a puzzle piece. 

“Any last words, love? I admit, I’ll miss hearing your voice~ Would love one more chance at hearing it,” he cooed, finally removing his hand from his former lover’s beak.

Acramento did nothing but take in breath after shuddery breath, with hardly the strength left to let out anything more than a quiet whimper.

At first.

He fixed his exhausted eye directly at one of Buttercup’s gleeful ones, and slowly opened his beak- an action that went unnoticed by the blind, vengeful ex atop him. 

And then he screamed.

It was quiet, squeaky, and weak at first, but as the adrenaline finally gripped his vocal cords, it grew in strength and volume.

He screamed, and what a scream it was, even as the rest of his flesh got frantically sawed through- though it unfortunately cut off with a dying gurgle as his vocal cords got shredded.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

Buttercup wasn’t expecting that.

He hurriedly finished the job- he may be getting caught, judging by the footsteps that grew closer towards the bedroom door, but he would still finish what he sought out to do.

And his knife cut through one more paper-thin strip of flesh and the door blew open and he whipped around, head now wildly swinging in one hand as his other grasped his knife as a garden trowel planted itself firmly atop his skull and knocked him into his victim’s body, where he lay stunned for minutes as his own attacker laid another blow after blow after blow, with each heavy clunk of the tool against the cyborg’s head resonating throughout the room and down the hallway as he struggled to get back up but was forced back down.

After several agitated moments, the petite gardener that had run in stood up on bony, shaky legs, the skeleton’s newly bloodstained bones trembling with adrenaline in the light of the nearby lantern.

“...Christ.” His shoulders fell as he finally took in the scene splayed out in front of him, a murky mixture of blood and what could either be ink or motor oil splattered all over the bed and plushies of the former inhabitant and now his favorite trowel that was grasped in a fleshless hand.

He stood in shocked silence, though whether it was due to the horror of the scene at hand or at the crime he had committed was unclear. Damn, he’d heard the screams, and he’d certainly wanted to stop the assault, but he didn’t think it’d look like…  _ this. _ Nor did he think he’d kill the guy, even in his apparent pursuit of justice.

Maybe he should’ve gotten a better look at the room first before he went in swinging.

He chalked his reaction up to a mere habit of his military-trained days of old, furiously trying to justify why he’d added to tonight’s body count as he slowly tucked his trowel into the pocket of his overalls.

“...Ophelia!” the gardener finally shouted, though he didn’t make a single move to step away from the scene. “ _Ophelia!_ ”  
A few sickeningly silent minutes passed. He started to think that maybe the crazy yellow bastard got ahold of the head of household, too, and a wave of relief rushed through him as he finally heard her irritated footsteps pace down the hallway and stop at the doorway.

“By the Gods themselves, Vincent, it’s three in the morning. What could possibly be bugging you so badly that you, as a man of several centuries, can’t solve it yourself?”

“How’re ya not… Gimme a minute.” The short, skeletal man crouched down and reached down within the lantern he’d set down on the floor, poking a finger in, and, with a short burst of orange magic, the candle’s flame burned multitudes brighter, lighting up the once-serene bedroom with the power of dozens of lightbulbs.

“Yer kid got up to stuff again, it looks like.”

Ophelia stood by the doorway in a sort of stunned silence, though her freckled, birthmark-stained face revealed no change in emotion as usual, whether by force or by nature. “...I…see.” She paused, azure eyes slowly travelling from the two bodies on the bed towards the ancient, bloodstained Vincent before her.   
“Before ya ask, I intervened, but I din’t kill nobody. I tried ta clean up,” he lied.

“I’m.. sure you did, Vincent.” She sighed. There went two of her house staff. “I’ll call the police. Go wash up while I’m gone, or they’ll believe you’ve killed one of these two yourself. Whether you have or not, I frankly couldn’t care, but I’d figure you’d rather not rot in jail,” she said briskly. “Hell- why are you even in your work clothes? It’s the middle of the night.”  
“They’re comfy.”

“Good for you.” She turned on a slippered heel, pushing frizzy hair out of her eyes as she made her way to the telephone at the end of the hall. “Have a good night, and don’t touch a damned thing in there.”  
“...Yup. Yeah. Yup.” He followed her out, closing the door with a soft click as he scurried to his own room, eager to not look like an accomplice in the crime.

Jesus Christ.

He’d always hated that stupid yellow fuck, and that stupid blue fuck the former fuck used to follow around all the time, but he’d never wanted all  _ this _ shit to happen to them, he mused as he changed into a pair of clean overalls.

He just hoped there’d be whiskey at their funerals.


End file.
